


Two Hundred Six: The Trials & Tribulations of a CMO

by carriecmoney



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Drabble Collection, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-15 08:15:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 10,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carriecmoney/pseuds/carriecmoney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>aka "My Patients Test the Limits of My Devotion to the Hippocratic Oath"</p><p>This is the unofficial log of the terrible, awful, wonderful things that Dr. Leonard McCoy has had the ill luck to experience aboard the USS Enterprise. God help him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Patella

Dr. Leonard McCoy, Chief Medical Officer of the _USS Enterprise_ , lounges back on a spare brace of the bridge and stares out the viewscreen at the stars. They’d set off on their God-forsaken five year mission a few days ago, and are still heading aimlessly outward, not going anywhere specific but “away”. The ship and its crew hum pleasantly around him, and he almost smiles as the familiar lull sets in.

Someone brushes by him a little closely, jolting him out of his stargazing and back into himself.

He looks around, blinking a few times. He glances over at the captain’s chair, where Jim happens to look up from... whatever it is he’s doing (looks like origami) and catches his eye. He grins. “Problem, Bones?”

McCoy shakes his head, trying to shake off his vague confusion. “Nah, just...” He looks around again. “Why am I even on the bridge right now? There’s nothing up here for me to do.”

Jim laughs, settling back in his chair, twirling his new paper crane in the air. “Well, I thought you just got bored down there in hell and wanted to spend some time with your dear ol’ captain.”

McCoy snorts, and Jim laughs harder. “Keep telling yourself that, Jim.” He pushes off of his brace. “Well, since I’m not needed here, I’m gonna go find some _real_ work to do.” As he walks by Jim’s chair, Jim throws his crane in his face, causing him to stop straight and glare at him. Jim just smirks.

“You do that, Bones.”           

With a shrug and a sigh, McCoy gives up for the moment and picks up the crane, taking it with him as he exits the bridge, the captain’s laughter following him out.

He knows he’ll be back soon enough, for one reason or another. He flaps the crane’s wings idly and scowls at it.

The bridge is a magnet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {A/N: So I have been sucked in by Star Trek. I have no regrets. However, in my perusal of the existing fic, I have found a sad misrepresentation of a true Southerner in Bones. This is my attempt to rectify that, as well as my attempt to explore the Enterprise and my strengths in this universe. It will be cross-posted to ff.net as Ellarose C and tumblr under my URL carriecmoney and this title. I'll try to post one of these every few days.
> 
> Enjoy!}


	2. Zygomatic

“I heard the captain “entertained” that envoy from Cait last night. _Alone_.”

“Pff, sure, as if. That cat wasn’t coming near _that_ with a ten foot pole, anyone could see that.”

“Well, maybe on the _outside_ , but hey, who _doesn’t_ want a piece of that?”

“Uhura.”

“...Okay who _else_ doesn’t want a piece of that?”

The blond Yeoman opens her mouth again, but from the almost-empty table behind them in the mess hall, Dr. McCoy sighs loudly. “I could make a list, if ya like.”

The two Yeomen straighten and turn slowly, guilt and wide eyes. McCoy grins internally. “Oh, er, hello, Dr. McCoy.”

He lets them squirm for a moment, then sighs again. “Ladies, calm down, I won’t tell on ya.” He takes his glass in hand and spins in his seat to straddle the back and face them. “In fact...” It’s high time Jim has to deal with something new on board. Maybe some fun rumors’ll do the trick.

They lean forward when he hesitates. _Gotcha._

* * *

McCoy grumbles as he digs around in his pharmacy - someone’s rearranged it from his careful placement into _alphabetical order_ , and apparently _someone_ wants to get fired - and curses the mission and the captain and alien flora with their disease-laden... everything. He throws medicines together with the carelessness characteristic of expertise, still grumbling when he emerges into the chaos that his sick bay has become in the aftermath of the latest disaster. He beelines for his _brainless_ captain, who had been the first to kick the proverbial hornet’s nest that was the jungle down on planet and so had borne the brunt of the alien plant’s attack. It truly was amazing that even with purple hives, labored breathing, a crusty mouth, and an astonishingly high fever, he was still trying to flirt with his attending nurse. And she was _buying_ it!

She must’ve been the one to alphabetize his pharmacy. _New girl_.

Jim didn’t notice him come up behind him, brandishing his hypospray like a weapon. The nurse didn’t see him until it was too late to warn the captain.

“So mayb- _ow!_ _Why_ are you _always_ so vicious with that thing?”

“Keep you on your toes, Jim.” The nurse giggles as he reloads his hypospray. “That was for the fever, and _this_ -”

“God fucking _damn it_ -”

“-is for the rash, and _this_ -”

“ _Stop_ already!”

“-is your famciclovir. You’re overdue.” The smile freezes on the nurse’s face, and McCoy’s inner grin fires up.

“I’m- I’m going to go help over - there, doctor,” the nurse says, pointing to a group huddled around the security officers that had been in the landing party. She scurries away, Jim watching her with an open mouth before rounding on McCoy.

“Okay, what the hell?”

McCoy smiles slightly as he brings out the ointment he’d pulled and starts slathering it over the nearest arm. “Famciclovir. For your cold sores.” He points vaguely at Jim’s mouth.

“My-” Jim rubs his free hand over his lip, then his eyes narrow. “You’re a dirty bitch, you know that.”

“Best part of me.”

“I hate you.”

“Too bad.”

Jim huffs and lets himself be manhandled, and McCoy reminds himself to add another tally to his side of the board.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {A/N: In case you are one of the lucky souls who doesn't get cold sores/fever blisters, the virus that causes them/the treatment for them is the same of that as genital herpes.
> 
> Have a nice day.}


	3. Coccyx

The main bridge crew and the other chiefs are all off shift and in the rec room, absorbing the precious downtime between the catastrophes that seem to follow them around. Dr. McCoy is drinking with Chekov and Scotty, both of whom could drink him under a table without even trying. This time it’s not a contest, thankfully, just unwinding after a long, tedious day. McCoy’s content to listen to Scotty lecture the kid on... some engine nonsense he honestly couldn’t care less about, and enjoy the whiskey from Scotty’s stores.

An engineer - female - crosses the room and comes up behind Chekov, crossing her arms around his shoulders, bosom pressed against the back of his head. “Hey, sweetheart.” McCoy’s eyebrows raise.

Chekov looks up to her face and smiles. “Oh, hello, Maria! How are you?”

“Tired.” She slumps down to rest her chin on his head. “Thinking about turning in early. You?”

Scotty snorts into his whiskey, coughing away the burn. Chekov blinks over at him. “Are you alright, Mr. Scotty, sir?”

“Fine, fine.” He waves him off, biting against a laugh. Maria glares at him over Chekov’s head.

“ _Anyway_ , Pasha, I was _wondering_ if you were going to bed early like me?”

Chekov shakes his head with a smile. “Mr. Scotty was telling me about very interesting things, actually, and I am very not tired!” At this he pulls out of her grasp and turns to regard her seriously. “But if _you_ are tired you must rest. We cannot have you sleeping on the job!” He smiles brightly at her, and she sighs and shakes her head.

“You’re too cute.” She ruffles his hair and walks away, out into the corridor.

As soon as the door closes Scotty bursts into hysterics, McCoy chuckling. Chekov just looked confused.

“What? Why are we laughing?” McCoy rubs at his face, then pats Chekov’s shoulder.

“Oh, bless your naive little heart.” Chekov cocked his head to the side.

“I am sorry, but I am not familiar with that?” Scotty just laughs harder - he’s red-faced and barely breathing at this point. Maybe he’s drunker than McCoy thought.

McCoy drains his whiskey. “It’s a Southern thing, kid. Hard to explain unless you understand.”


	4. Incus

It’s late, but not too late for Dr. McCoy to be filling out paperwork (such as it is) in his office when he hears the sickbay doors open. He looks up, and a few seconds later Jim appears in his door, face red and blotchy, eyes and nose streaming. “Bones, I-”

A sob shudders out of him, and McCoy’s on his feet instantly, taking him by the shoulders and leading him to the chair across his desk. When Jim just keeps sobbing, he reaches into a side drawer and pulls out a box of tissues - emergencies. He holds it out without a word, and Jim takes five, wiping off his face furiously. McCoy frowns.

“What’s wrong, Jim.”

“ _Nothing!_ ” He chokes - _hyperventilates_ \- and McCoy sits on the arm of the chair, rubbing his back soothingly. “Noth-nothing’s wrong, I was just helpin’ ou’ down’n Engineering and I’as dizzy’n so I sat down-” a few more choking breaths - “I sat down, but it just got _worse_ and I din’ wan’ anyone liable if I threw up or somethin’ so...” He tried to take deep, calming breaths, but they escaped in coughs.

“So you came here. It’s all right, Jim.” He keeps rubbing his back, trying to calm him down. It seems that just when the crying slows down, a deep breath sets it off again.

“My chest _hurts_ , I dunno wha’s goin’ _on_ , Bones, I’m _soscared_.” He fumbles at the tissue box again, and his face is a wreck now.

McCoy shushes him softly. “When’d you eat last, kid?”

Jim pulls a face. “Wazzat gotta do-”

 _“Jim_.”

A shaky sigh. “Be... before noon? No, I had a granola bar at-”

“Dammit, Jim.” McCoy stands and goes to the replicator set in his wall. (Rank has such nice privileges.) “You can’t keep treatin’ yourself like this, you’re gonna kill yourself one day.” The replicator spits out a protein milkshake and some light snack fare; he carries it back over and puts the shake in Jim’s hands, setting the rest on his desk in easy reach. “Here, drink.”

While Jim takes slow pulls at it, McCoy drags his desk chair around to sit closer. Sickbay at ‘night’ is always a quiet place, and now the only sounds are the hum of latent machinery and the soft hiccups from Jim between shake sips.

“Jim.” He looks up, eyes bloodshot. “You’re having a panic attack.”

He blinks. “What.”

“It’s not unheard of, with your position and the way you work yourself-”

“But I’m not stressed out! I’m not-” His breaths quicken again, and he gulps down the shake to try to calm himself back down. McCoy waits.

“I’m not having any _anxiety_ right now.” He spits it out like a curse word.

McCoy reaches over and nudges the waiting food closer. Jim takes the hint. “Maybe not, but you _are_ putting yourself under extreme physical stress. Constantly. Why were you down at Engineering until almost midnight, anyway?” Jim refuses to make eye contact, focusing on his food, and McCoy rolls his eyes. “Dumbass.”

“What d’you want me to do, Bones? _Not_ work where I’m needed?”

“What I _want_ if for you to let us _help_ you!” Jim looks up, and McCoy pins him there. “You’re not alone on this ship, kid. There’s four hundred thirty of us who want to keep it flyin’, too.” He smiles and waits for Jim to smile back before standing. “Now _eat_. And then you’re gonna sleep the whole night through if I have to tie you down to your bed and sedate you.” Jim almost laughs at that, and McCoy ruffles his hair before pulling his chair back around his desk and working on his paperwork, letting Jim sit quietly across from him and recover.


	5. Inferior Nasal Conchae

“Y’know what I miss the most about Earth?”

Jim looks up from his coffee that he’d been staring into while McCoy stared out the window of the observation deck during their break. “I dunno. Your kid?”

“Well, her, of course.” McCoy turns to lean his back against the window. “Rain. Good, normal, _Earth_ rain, not that acid crap or sulphur or any other kind of rain we’ve run into out here in this God-forsaken galaxy. I miss a good ol’ afternoon thunderstorm, sittin’ on the porch and watching it come down...” He trails off, eyes closing and head knocking back against the glass.

Jim settles in a mirror position across the table, knee pulled to his chest. “Well, I dunno what it was like for you down there, but up on the plains you could see a storm coming for miles, rolling gray clouds and wind ahead...” He sips at his coffee. “We didn’t get thunderstorms for just an hour in Iowa.”

McCoy snorts without opening his eyes. “Too bad for you. Best part about afternoon storms - they were gone by the time you needed to let the dog out again.” Jim barked a quick laugh.

“Rain wasn’t always a good sign for me. Tornadoes, the farmers complaining for weeks, high or low.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’ve sat through my share of hurricanes.” McCoy crosses his legs and taps his foot to a beat only he can hear, shooting back a mouthful of coffee. “I know rain’s not always nice an’ easy back home, but that’s really the best kind, as long as it’s _water_ rain.”

Jim chuckles, drains the last of his cup, and pushes himself out of his chair, rapping his knuckles on McCoy’s shoulder as he passes. “Back to work, Bones.”


	6. Temporal

The _Enterprise_ can now add ‘ferry’ to the long line of alternative ways the Federation has used them. Right now, they’re shepherding colonists from one planet to another, and although they’re all in decent health, a group of the stupid civilians keeps clogging up McCoy’s sickbay.

A strangely large portion of them are middle-aged women.

He turns around a bit too quickly while rearranging his pharmacy - _again_ \- and almost runs into one, a redhead with a single streak of grey going back from her temple. “Sorry, ma’am, but can I help you?”

“I don’t know, _can_ you?” She smiles up at him. McCoy raises his eyebrows.

“Teacher by profession, I’m assuming.” He steps carefully around her to retrieve his PADD from where he’d last set it down across the room, intending to get at least _some_ good out of this and refill what was necessary from the larger storage room belowdeck. She shadows him, just barely not underfoot, and _giggles_.

“Why, Dr. McCoy, you picked that up after only one line? You _must_ be as intelligent as I heard!”

McCoy snorted, then laughed. “Who told you _that_?”

“Oh, just hearsay, here and there.” She hovers at the pharmacy door, watching him as he sorts through bottles carelessly, checking off his refills on the chart he’d pulled up. “Of course, they never mentioned how handsome you were, too.”

McCoy’s spine straightens abruptly, and he’s frozen for a moment there before his caustic reflexes kick in. “Well, now I _know_ they were lyin’ to ya.”

He keeps his back turned to her, but he can _hear_ her eyelashes flutter. “Not at all, doctor.” He sighs and turns around.

“Look, I’m very flattered, ah-”

“Rose.” She’s deflating, he can tell, and he winces.

“Rose. But I’m kinda busy here, and I don’t think you’ll find me good company after a while.” He goes back to his bottles. “Tell your friends that, too.”

She laughs quietly, bittersweet. “You’re quite the man, Dr. McCoy.”

“Yeah, well, tell my ex-wife that.” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her smile as she backs away and heads out the sickbay door.


	7. Lumbar Vertebra

It’s been a rough day. His replicator only gave him unsweet tea at lunch no matter what he did, two of his nurses almost got in a fight over beans (a longer story than he cared to admit), and another landing party had gone south, sending more wounded security officers than he liked flooding his sickbay and keeping everyone working five jobs at once.

And he’d lost one of them.

He _hated_ that, _hated_ losing a patient - especially when it was a crewman. He kept it hidden under his doctor’s mask, far too used to death of familiar faces at this point, but he’d be lying if it still didn’t get to him. He’s the goaltender of their team – even if it wasn’t his fault, he still gets the last job, and often suffers the blame.

He stretches as he enters his quarters, later than usual because of the demand, and flops down on his bed without even taking his shoes off. The fester in his mind isn’t going to let him sleep, though, and he knows that. He sighs and rolls over, staring at the ceiling for a long minute before sitting up to take off his boots.

As he’s looking down, he sees the corner of an actual book sticking out from under his bed. He frowns and bends down to slide it out - his Bible. Right. He’d thrown it there last month, when he’d tried reading it and gave up in frustration. He flips through the pages, wafer-thin and crackling, and scowls. Well, he’s not going to sleep anyway, might as well try and read himself out of his pit.

He opens the book to a random part towards the back - one of the Epistles of Paul. He pages back to the beginning of the section and starts reading.

 _Paul, an apostle of Christ Jesus by the will of God,_  
To God’s holy people in Ephesus, the faithful in Christ Jesus:  
Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ...

He makes it to the end of the section before he closes it back in disgust. _Predestination_ , what a load of bullshit. The ship - hell, this whole _timeline_ ’s proof that there’s no such thing as fate. The idea that some higher power has played it all out beforehand is absurd. Paul was full of it, and he’s only made him more angry about his bad day.

He throws the book back under his bed to be rediscovered later and gets up to change out of his filthy scrubs into something that might help him actually get some sleep.


	8. Maxilla

It’s finally quiet in sickbay. The last few days have been a plague of turmoil – the plague they’ve come to expect from their missions, but this time the plague comes aboard, wounding multiple members of the crew – including Uhura, when the subsonic attacks fries her comms and explodes in her face. She’s still recovering from her electrical burns, collapsed eardrum, and other small bits of trauma in one of the biobeds, the white of her hospital gown strange after so long in red.

McCoy’s making his last rounds before going off shift, checking the vitals of those still bedridden. As he fiddles with Uhura’s bedding, she stirs and blinks half-awake slowly.

“Hey, Leo. How is it?”

A mild start – Uhura insists on calling him Leo, saying she always wanted a lion in her life, but no one has ever used that particular nickname on him before. (Not to mention the fact that he’s long given up making people call him by his first name at all on this ship.) He glances down at the readings on his PADD.

“Well, if we’re talking about you, then you’re recovering nicely.” He taps his stylus gently on the pillow next to her damaged ear. “A night’s rest and y’all’ll be right as rain in no time.”

She smiles hazily. “Leo, ‘y’all’ is a plural pronoun. Unless there’s more than one of me, it’s ‘you’ and only ‘you’.”

McCoy’s mouth twitches, and he sets the PADD down on the table next to her bed and finishes straightening out her linens. “Sweetheart, you might be able to distinguish between twenty different dialects of an alien language, but you don’t know nothin’ about Southern vocabulary.”

She hums and settles herself better in her sheets. “Maybe you should teach me, then.”

“Some other time. Promise.” She sighs, and her eyes fall closed. “G’night, sweetheart.”

“I’ve told you, call me Nyota.” She’s asleep before he can answer.


	9. Scapula

“Doctor, the starbase medical supplier wanted to kno- oh my _God_.”

McCoy doesn’t even have time to try and hide what’s in his hands from his head nurse - a set of knitting needles and a partially completed blue sock - but he tries anyway. “Dammit, Chapel, haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”

She’s still frozen in his doorway, a hysteric grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. “ _You knit_.”

He scowls at her, then sighs and lays his knitting down on top of his desk instead of hiding it underneath. “You spend enough time sitting at Mrs. May’s bedside doing home visits and you get forced to learn. Besides, it’s freezing on this damned boat at night.”

“Oh, please tell me it’s not just knitting.” He narrows his eyes at her, and she takes a step in through the door so it can close behind her. “I’ll- tell the captain if you don’t tell me what else you know.”

“Jim knows - I _lived_ with him for three years, y’know. Saved his ass from frostbite more than once.”

That grin hits both corners. “I’ll tell Commander Spock.”

“ _Ooh._ You play dirty.”

“And I have no guilt about it. Spill.”

McCoy rubs at his temples. “Fine, have it your way. Mrs. May was the knitter, then Mrs. Palmer taught me crocheting and bridge so she could have a partner, and Widow O’Brien made me hem her sheets and tat her lace.”

She presses a hand to her mouth. “I don’t think I’ve ever been happier than this moment.”

“Hmph.” He holds out his hand for the PADD in hers. “Just tell me what you came in here to tell.”

She steps forward and picks up where she had been at the door, but even her years of professional training can’t wipe away her smirk by the time she leaves.


	10. Tibia

McCoy tucks himself in a corner of the bridge, out of the way, watching the increasingly seamless performance of the crew through another First Contact. This is one of the many magnetic attractions that the bridge holds for him, being a witness to another new civilization, another dot in the starchart of the Federation. He doesn’t always have anything to contribute, but he likes to be on hand anyway.

His position is next to Uhura’s console, and he eavesdrops on her mutterings as she tries to get the universal translator to pick up this new species’ communication. She has some marginal success, and says so to Jim as he makes his rounds on the bridge floor.

“I’ve figured out basic greetings and syntax, but the translator is struggling to pick up the vocabulary. It seems that they have a new language- there doesn’t seem to be many different words in the transmissions I’m receiving.” She pauses, listening to her earpiece. “There’s a trending word that must apply to any avenue of travel, because I’m getting it for everything from ‘road’ to ‘transporter beam’ - sounds like _pichtri._ ”

McCoy snorts. Jim and Uhura look at him, but he can’t stop, his snorts bursting into uncontrollable laughter. Now they’re staring at him.

“Bones, what the hell is your problem?”

“I-” He heaves in a breath. “I’m sorry, it’s just-” He breaks into another round of laughter, and now more than the two of them are staring. “ _Peachtree!_ ” He slaps his hands over his mouth, trying to contain it.

“I don’t get it.”

He breathes in heavily through his nose until he’s got himself under control enough to speak normally. “I’m from Atlanta.”

“And I’m from Iowa. What’s your point?”

Uhura seems to get it, though, because she has to bite her lip against a smile. McCoy rolls his eyes and exchanges a glance with her. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, Jim. It’d take too long to explain.”

Jim shrugs - he’s used to McCoy dismissing him under that pretext - and moves on. Uhura goes back to her translator, fighting it again, but the smile stays there.

**   
**

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {A/N: This is for my Atlanta fans. Also a good time to mention that I've resided in the ATL for the past few years.}


	11. Mandible

It takes a few cursed years for the inevitable to occur, but McCoy isn’t sure that the aftermath is any less cursed as he stares blankly at Jim, who is standing awkwardly across his desk.

“You want me to _what_?” he hisses, watching his office door for spies.

“Give me permission to, y’know, Spock. Do it.” He shifts back and forth, and McCoy hasn’t seen him this nervous since the Academy.

McCoy groans and bangs his forehead on his desk repeatedly. “Why me?”

“Well, protocol dictates that any human wishing to have sex with an alien has to get permission from the captain and the head doctor, and since I _very much_ have permission from the capt-”

“ _Rhetorical_ , Jim.” He lifts his head from his desktop and leans it heavily on one hand. “I know _why_ , I just wish it wasn’t _me_.” He looks up to the ceiling for guidance - old habits die hard - and waves at Jim idly. “Sit. Tell.”

Jim does, but he’s _blushing_. “I’m not sure you really want to hear this.”

“I don’t, but I’m going to.” He reaches into his one locked drawer and pulls out the bourbon he keeps for occasions like these, as well as two beakers that serve as shot glasses. He pours them both a drink, his considerably heavier, then slides one over to Jim. He leaves the bottle on the table.

“Now. _Tell_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {A/N: I'll try not to be shippy with this, but I couldn't resist when someone told me that sex with an alien has to be approved by the captain and the CMO.}


	12. Proximal Phalange (Secundus)

It never fails. Come the end of Earth’s October, Jim will hunt him down and bother him - well, more frequently and pointedly than usual.

“Come _on_ , Bones! You _have_ to do it - it’s your _calling!_ ”

“Screw you, you’re the only one who saddles me with that name, why should I care?” He tries to go back to his pharmacy - God _damn_ those nurses - but Jim keeps badgering.

“You don’t have to go full out! You can just, I dunno, find one of those shirts with the glow in the dark ribcages or something-”

“For the fiftieth time, Jim,” McCoy sighs, “I am _not_ dressing up as any kind of skeleton to suit your whims!” He shuffles an entire row of syringes down a shelf to make room for the aspirin that had switched sides on him. (Call him old-fashioned, but sometimes two little white pills work better than any hypospray.)

Jim pouts, slouching against the doorframe. “You’re no fun.” There’s a brief moment of silence. “What if I got you a pair of gloves and a skull mask or something and a tux and called you _Mr._ Bones-”

McCoy rakes a hand through his hair and groans. If only Spock would- _ooh_.

“If I offer you a deal, will you leave me the hell alone so I can fix this mess?”

Jim glances around the ordered shelves and raises his eyebrows, but moves on. “It’s possible.”

“I’ll do it. Full-on skeleton crap, or whatever you want.” Jim’s grin is terrifying. “ _If_ you can convince Spock to do Legolas.” Jim blanches.

McCoy jerks his head up and smirks. “That’s what I thought.”

“You underestimate my powers of persuasion, my good doctor.” McCoy sneers, and Jim laughs. “Fine. Deal.”

“And none of that he said, she said crap, all right? I’ll need Spock to tell me _himself_ that he’s doing it before I agree to shit.”

“Fair ‘nough.” Jim pushes off the doorframe. “Pleasure doin’ business with ya, as always, Bones.”

“Bite me.” Jim’s laugh echoes as he goes off to do actual work, and McCoy turns to his medicine and forgets about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {A/N: A three-parter!}


	13. Intermediate Phalange (Secundus)

It takes a year. Spock isn’t _quite_ wrapped around Jim’s little finger yet, and they end up having a crisis on Halloween anyway. McCoy has actually clean forgotten about the whole “deal” until he gets a surprise visit from Spock in his office a few days before Halloween.

McCoy frowns up from his halfway-recalibrated schedule. “Can I help ya, Spock?”

“I think I will need to purchase a wig.” McCoy pulls a face.

“Do I _care_ about that? What’re you’n Jim gettin’ into these days? Don’t answer that.” Just because he’d checked off on... _them_ doesn’t mean he wants details.

“That is not what the purpose would be.” He reaches up and twists a lock of hair between two fingers. “If I intend on fulfilling my end of the deal, my short black hair will not do. I need long blond.”

“Best talk to Rand about that.” He looks back down at his schedule for all of five seconds before giving up and laying his stylus on his desk. “Okay, fine, I cave. Out with it.”

“The bargain you struck with Jim concerning our Halloween costumes, and involving myself masquerading as a figure from your Tolkien’s fiction and you as a metaphorical human skeleton.”

McCoy blinks and stares. If Spock were anyone else he’d be squirming. “My God, man. You’re _whipped_.”

And _that_ gets a visible reaction. Spock bristles, shoulders arching back a little more. “Certainly not, I was simply exhausted of Jim’s incessant prodding and decided to, as you say, ‘get it over with’.”

“Uh-huh.” He rubs at his eyes and sighs. “You owe me for this.”

“This was your idea, doctor.”

“I only had it ‘cause I thought you’d never agree to it!” He scowls at him. “Stupid assumption, I see now.”

Spock pauses, staring at an (the only) empty patch on McCoy’s desk. “I think... it would be wise not to make such assumptions in the future.”

“Ya think?” McCoy sighs and waves him off. “Go on, go make the brat’s day. I’m sure I’ll see him soon, now.”

Spock nods and leaves, and it takes all of McCoy’s will not to drag out his underdesk bourbon.


	14. Distal Phalange (Secundus)

What starts off as a simple Jim-whim quickly turns into a ship-wide collaboration that Bones is sad to be the trigger of.

Upon realizing that Spock really is going to be Legolas, Jim starts putting together a different ensemble for himself. He was going to be a pirate, to continue in his developing tradition of going as various historic naval captains, but decides that he can claim any rank up to King. (He’d been crowned on Regulus V about half a year ago, and even though he’d abdicated in favor of local government, he still pulls the rank when he’s being ‘cute’.)

So he’s going as Aragorn.

McCoy is terrified he’ll be talked into being the dwarf character now, but Jim is deadset on him being the skeleton. He finds a crown somewhere and says he’s the King of the Dead Men of the Mountains, which McCoy doesn’t recognize or care about. Unlike Jim, he’s only seen the latest adaptations and hadn’t devoted a chunk of his childhood to Middle Earth. Unfortunately for him, he seems to be the exception to the rule.

When McCoy steps into the redecorated rec room, Jim’s chosen skeletal holo covering his body and the most ridiculous crown he’s ever seen on his head, the entire _room_ is matching. The bridge crew is the main cast - there’s Chekov in fake furry bare feet, Sulu has his sword strapped to his back and some kind of animal horn at his hip, and Uhura has her hair down and _fake ears_ -

“Bones! You finally showed up!” Jim materializes at his side and claps him on the back harder than necessary, making the holo stutter. He’s Aragorn in his Strider days, unshaven by a lot (he’s spent the last week growing it out) and generally dark and mysterious and gross. McCoy’s lip curls, and he shakes him off to go find the alcohol. Jim follows.

“You’re the last one here besides Spock,” Jim chatters at him as McCoy pours himself something that smokes and makes his nose burn. Apparently the science department has too much time on their hands.

“I can’t believe you got _the entire crew_ to humor you.” He tips back half of his drink, and that burns even more.

“After you’n Spock, they were the easy part. Who knew we had so many classics fans on this ship!” He leans in to mutter, “Although I think Scotty’s just in it for the axe.”

McCoy looks, and sure enough, Scotty’s happy as a clam across the room with a war axe “confiscated” from a pre-warp planet, spinning it around dangerously and laughing through his false beard.

“He’s gonna kill someone.”

“And that’s why you’re on site.” McCoy wrinkles his nose.

The doors slide open, and Spock is there, forest green and where in the universe did he get a longbow? McCoy doesn’t have time to ask, though, because Spock sees Jim and beelines to his other side.

“I apologize for my late arrival, but the wig refused to stay put.” There’s a strain in the corners of his mouth, and now that he’s closer, McCoy can see a corner of black at his temple.

“Don’t sweat it.” Jim reaches up to tuck the black back under. “You look hot.”

McCoy fills up his glass again and _leaves_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {A/N: And that's the Halloween arc! Look for more arcs in the future (but not yet).}


	15. Stapes

McCoy knocks at Jim’s door after alpha shift’s dinner, keeping his knitting concealed in the “medkit” he’d carried it in from his quarters. Sickbay’s nice and quiet the majority of the time, but sometimes he desperately needs to get away from the stench of antiseptic and weeks-old death.

“Jim, it’s me.”

“ _Yeah, hold on!_ ” There’s a strange rumbling from the _side_ of the door, and then one half of the door slides into the wall. The other one stays put, making the doorway more of a sliver.

“Uh. Jim?”

Jim leans back from his desk chair so he can look through his thinner door. “The AI on these doors is _awesome!_ ”

“Uh huh.” McCoy slides through the sliver sideways, and Jim fiddles with one of the six PADDs on his desk before it slides closed again. “What did you do now?”

“Have you ever thought about how the doors on a starship never open unless we’re actually going to use them?” Jim doesn’t look up at him, too busy throwing things virtually between all of his PADDs, which seem to be laid out in some pattern. McCoy falls on his bed and props up against the wall, opening his improvised knitting basket and taking out the hat he’d been working on for Joanna. He hopes blue is still her favorite color.

“Can’t say I’ve ever cared.”

“That’s just the _thing_ , though, ain’t it? They’re designed so flawlessly that you don’t _have_ to!” Jim takes two parts of his careful arrangement and crosses his room to flop down by McCoy, head by his lap. “It used to be that automatic doors opened with a simple motion sensor, but can you _imagine_ walking down a hallway where every door opens as you pass by? _Awk-ward_.” Jim rolls onto his stomach and sets the PADD he isn’t currently staring at on McCoy’s lap. He ignores it and reacquaints himself with his project. “So they had to figure a way to keep that from happening, which means trying to discern _human intent_ through freaking _sensors_ and do you even know how hard that is without robotic telepathy? Of course, non-con mind reading was outlawed in the Fed forever ago, so they can’t even do _that_. Really, I want to give the team that did this a medal.”

“Why in the blazes are you looking at the programming for the _doors_.”

“Because it’s sophisticated as shit and I wanted to pull off a ship-wide April Fool’s next week.” Jim finally glances up at him. “You’re exempt, of course.”

“I’ll still keep an eye out for rogue doors, if you don’t mind.” He pulls out his roll of yarn and straightens it. “Now, hands.”

“But I’m _reading!_ ”

“Pick one of those things and I’ll turn the page for you, crybaby.”

Jim sneers, but pushes the PADD currently on McCoy’s legs to the other side of his lap so he can lay over it instead, holding his hands up behind his head and nose against the PADD. It’s gonna have smudge marks, to be sure.

McCoy wraps his yarn around his hands and gets to work, letting the pleasant monotony of it bleed away the day. Jim goes silent except for the occasional comment, paging around the PADD’s contents with his chin.

Not a bad evening, and McCoy even gets a warning for when all of the living quarter doors in the boat start developing personalities and voice-recorded comebacks come the first of April.  


	16. Triquetrum

When their ceaseless wanderings take them in calling distance of Earth, Jim and Uhura arrange for the eighty percent of their crew with Terran origins to have calls home. It’s been over a year since their departure, and every human - and some non-humans - are homesick and desperate for the faces they love.

Jim insists that he go last - whether from his captain’s conscience or from his reluctance to talk to his grandmother, his only living relative on the planet since his brother and mother are scattered across the stars, McCoy doesn’t know. But he also insists that McCoy goes first.

(“Least I can do after making you miss your kid’s tenth birthday,” he reasons at the time, which makes McCoy groan and pull at his hair.

“Oh my God, she’s _ten_.” Jim smiles and claps his shoulder.)

He gets half an hour - more senior officer privileges - and he even gets Uhura to handle the ex-bitch so the only one he has to deal with is his girl. He really loves Uhura sometimes.

The time comes; he sequesters himself in his quarters and pulls up the comm.

The infernal loading dots click across the screen for a moment, then his girl’s upper half fills the screen. She beams. “ _Dad!_ ”

“Jo!” He barely registers that he’s beaming back. “How’s my main girl doin’?”

She shrugs, still smiling. “ _Awesome, I guess._ ”

“You _guess_? C’mon, you can give me more than that.”

She giggles. Her eyes catch on something to the side of the screen, and she squeals and drags it into the frame - a large black tabby cat. “ _I’ve written thirteen essays about Scampers this year!_ ”

McCoy laughs. “Really? That must be a new record.” She nods frantically.

“ _Oh, yeah, duh. Ms. Goss said she’d give me a whole_ bag _of mini Snickers if I got through the whole year like this!_ ”

“Better not tell your mom about that.” She makes a very exaggerated winking motion to hide the fact that she can’t wink, and he bites the inside of his lip.

The cat struggles, meowing wildly. “ _Scampers, stop that!_ ” But fifteen pounds of cat is too much for forty five pounds of girl, and he escapes her arms and the frame. She sighs dramatically and lets him go.

“ _By the way, Mom says that she’s not saying hi._ ” McCoy snorts as Jo rolls her eyes. “ _Mom can be such a drama queen_.”

“Don’t have to tell me, kid.” She sticks out her tongue at him.

“ _I’m not a kid anymore! I’m in_ double digits! _”_ He smiles, and he aches to hold her.

“Yeah, you are. Sorry I couldn’t be there for your birthday, Bunny.”

She wrinkles his nose at his nickname for her. “ _Nah, it’s okay. You’re in_ space! _Is space awesome or awesom_ er _?_ ”

“Depends on who you ask, and when you ask them. Maybe one day you’ll know.”

“ _I hope so._ ” She pulls her ponytail tighter. “ _I’m happy you’re in space, anyway, because when I tell people that my dad works on the_ Enterprise _I get_ all the free stuff _!”_

He bursts into laughter. “Now who taught you _that_ one?”

“ _I taught it to myself._ ” She preens. He smiles.

“As long as you don’t miss me _too_ much.”

“ _Well, it kinda stinks that you can’t check my knees anymore._ ” She pulls said knees up to her chest, and he can see evidence of multiple scrapes at various stages there. “ _Nobody fixes stuff with a sharpie like you do_.”

The corner of his mouth tugs up - when her first grade hypochondriac self kept asking him to ‘check’ body parts, he lost patience and drew checkmarks in marker that she wore to school like a badge of honor. “I’m sure you can find someone if you want.” She shakes her head vehemently, hugs her knees tighter. “Sweetheart-”

“ _I started swimming!_ ” she proclaims loudly, changing the subject. He lets her, and they meander on, starting with her new swim lessons and going on to her friends, back to her cat, to her and ex-bitch’s vacation plans, and somewhere in there she practices her bird-walk for him while he demonstrates the proper way to combine velociraptor with Canadian goose.

They’re both red-faced and laughing when a little red ‘1’ starts flashing in the corner of his screen. He does his best to catch his breath.

“Bunny, I’m sorry, but it’s time for me to skedaddle.” She tries not to let her face fall. “You should send me some of those essays about Scampers. I bet they’re hilarious.”

“ _Ms. Goss seems to think so_.” She smiles at him. “ _I’m supposed to practice my email writing, anyway_.”

“What better practice than your dear old dad?” She giggles, and he melts. “I miss ya, sweetie.”

She pulls her cat up again - who has given up his fight for now - and buries her face in his back. “ _Yeah_.”

“Tell your mom I don’t say hi back, okay?” She nods, and he takes one more long look at her - his hair, his eyes, mother’s nose, both of their smiles. “Keep me posted.” She nods into her cat again, then looks up so just her eyes are visible. She waves.

“ _Bye, Dad_.”

“Hop along, little bunny rabbit.” Her smile crinkles her eyes, and he cuts the transmission.

He sits there and breathes for a minute, staring at the ceiling and letting the ache in his chest subside before getting up and going back to his starship life.

His cheeks ache for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {A/N: I went off of Joanna's birthday from the wiki and just fit it to the timeline, because no one seems to know what to do with her and makes up whatever they want. So she's a fifth grader. And she's also my sister, down to the anecdotes.}


	17. Humerus

For once, the seemingly-uninhabited planet that they beam down to is actually uninhabited. The area the landing party - Spock and his selected science officers, Sulu because he likes plants, and McCoy for emergencies - arrives in is an open forest, tall trees with sparse underbrush and a carpet of leaf litter. McCoy takes a deep breath and closes his eyes - it’s hot and humid, and he can almost imagine that he’s home.

With his eyes closed, he can hear the sounds of water gurgling down the slope, and he hikes down to it with a spring in his step. He keeps an ear out for shouts from his landing party, but he’s not too concerned. It would take their own stupidity to hurt themselves here.

He finds the source of the water sounds - a creek, just a little forest stream. The moss at the bottom of it is blue and purple, but otherwise it seems to be safe. He sits down on a rock in the dappled sunlight and takes off his boots, stuffing his socks inside them next, and dangling his feet in the water. It’s cold, but not too cold, and he smiles.

It’s quiet except for the rustlings of small animals out of sight, the bubbling of the creek, and the occasional footfall from the landing party. The hum of a starship is a different kind of silence than this, and McCoy revels as the surface beneath him never vibrates.

He hears someone walk closer to him, and he doesn’t have to open his eyes to know it’s Spock. “Lovely day, ain’t it?”

“It is _wet_.” McCoy cracks an eyelid to look up at Spock, who is doing a terrible job of hiding the fact that he’s in his ‘disgruntled cat’ mood.

“Well, water does tend to have that quality.” He splashes his foot in the creek.

Spock twitches a dismissal. “Not that, the _air_. It _clings_.” He tries to brush it off the back of his hands, and McCoy bites back his grin.

“Surely you’ve been in humidity before.”

“That does not mean I enjoy it.”

“Aw, man up, Spock.” He kicks his foot to get a few drops of water on Spock and manages to hit his face. He stops hiding his grin when Spock glares at him in affront before deliberately wiping away the droplets. “You’ll live.”

“But I will not like it.”

McCoy bursts into a laugh. “I knew there was a reason I could never take you home to Ma n’ Dad. No good Southern boy could be seen with someone who can’t stand a lil’ humidity.”

“I am going to go scan more flora.” Spock stomps away, and McCoy chuckles as he rearranges himself on his rock.


	18. Parietal

On his way back from lunch in the officer’s mess, Dr. McCoy stops suddenly and tilts his head - is that crying?

He follows his ears and finds a bleary-eyed lieutenant in command gold sequestered away in a dark corner of a hallway. He walks over to her slowly to give her time to see him and not be startled, touching her elbow lightly when he stops in front of her.

“What’s glum, sugar plum?” She almost smiles at that, but turns her face to rub at her sleeve.

“Dr. McCoy, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you - disturb _anyone_ \- I just...” She wipes at her face again. “I just got the news. My sister died, she died a _month_ ago, and I wasn’t there, and my parents, they...” She trails off as her throat closes on her, and McCoy shushes her softly, shifting so he can wrap an arm around her shoulders from the side. She leans into it just a little. “I’m sorry, doctor, you’re probably busy and don’t have time for this, I just don’t have anyone to talk to about this stuff on the ship and it won’t stop coming out and I’m babbling now-”

McCoy chuckles and releases her. “Easy, easy. I’ve always got time for my crew when it’s about their well-being - physical or mental.” He takes a step back. “Why don’t you come with me to sick bay? I’ll drop a word to your CO that you’re with me, and you can talk all you want and I’ll listen. I’ve been told I’m a good listener.” She wipes her face on her other arm. “Plus, I’ve got tissues.”

She gives a watery laugh. “Yes, all right. I’d like that.” She does what she can to compose herself before pulling out of her nook, following McCoy to sickbay and the soft-cornered counseling office that’s attached to it.

(An hour later, he knows her name is Nora Vasquez, her sister was her older one, there are two more brothers, she misses soccer and her father’s cooking, and that she has a standing weekly appointment with him to talk about whatever helps and heals.

He didn’t get that psychology doctorate for nothing.)


	19. Metatarsus

****

Dr. Marcus’s personal lab room looks like a giant robot threw up on the shelves, the floor, and any surface that can hold mechanical equipment. McCoy dances around the parts on the floor by the door, careful not to let the coffee in his hands spill.

Marcus is at the large table in the middle of the room, jumpsuit and welding mask on, elbow-deep in her latest project. When McCoy accidentally hits something with his knee, she looks up at the clatter and the curse.

“Leonard!” She turns off her blowtorch and pushes up her mask. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

“Damn engineers won’t stop giving themselves third degree burns at the end of my shift.” He finally makes it to the table and sets the cups down, pushing aside a roll of blue wires to find space. “I swear they do it on purpose.”

She smiles and rolls her eyes. “Because everyone’s against you.”

“Why else won’t they learn they need to wear gloves when welding?” She strips off hers. “ _You’ve_ learned that.”

“Learnt.” He wrinkles his nose at her, and she wrinkles hers back. “Do you know how long it took me to be able to weld with half an inch of coated leather on my fingers?”

“Too long, I’m sure.” He pulls up a stool and sits next to her, facing backwards to lean on his elbows where he can, dangling his coffee cup from his fingers. She reaches over and takes hers, downing half of it in one go. “Y’know there’s healthier ways to stay awake. Sleeping better, for one.”

She sticks her tongue out at him over the cup’s rim. “But I’m on a good run here! You want me to stop to _sleep_?”

“Preferably, yeah. Unless you’ve found a way to keep going while you sleep.” She laughs and drapes herself over her project - which seems to be one of their probes, insides dissected - before closing her eyes and sighing.

“In my dreams, maybe.” She rubs her cheek against the metal. “I love when it’s warm.”

McCoy snorts. “I need to stop enabling you, bringing you coffee. You’re almost as bad as Jim.”

She hums. “Spock says that, too.” She smiles slightly. “Well, maybe not _explicitly_ , but he implies it.”

“If Spock ever said anything explicitly I’d start watching for flying pigs.”

“We’re in space. You never know what you’ll find.” McCoy groans.

“Stop reminding me. Down here, I can almost forget we’re a few sheets of metal away from painful death.” She chuckles, settles herself better against her project. He frowns at her. “Need me to carry you to bed?”

“No, _Mum._ ” But she sits back away from the probe and takes her coffee again. “ ‘sides, I wouldn’t have gotten through university if I hadn’t figured out how to nap on hard surfaces.”

“You science types disgust me. I’m ashamed to wear the same color as you.” She laughs, loud and head thrown back, making him laugh a little with her. “What’re you stayin’ up all hours of the night to work on, anyway?”

She makes a little noise through her mouthful of coffee and swallows quickly. “Oh, I’m testing a theory of mine to see if I can make one of our exploratory probes have the ability to perform delayed multiple combustion in a vacuum.”

He blinks as he translates the science babble. “You’re going to make it explode more than once in space.” She grins.

“The fun part is making it so that he still fulfills his purpose as a data-recording device,” she says, bending back over her open surgery. “I think if I can do this right, I can even make him come back to the ship, even if he’s let off more than one of his charges.”

“He?”

She nods and shrugs. “Sure, if we call the _Enterprise_ a she, then aren’t these little fellows just her worker bees?” He laughs and shakes his head.

“I don’t understand how you think sometimes, Carol.”

She winks at him, drinks the last bit of her coffee before it goes cold, then kicks back into her lecture. McCoy scoots his stool a bit closer to look inside and pay attention. (If he and his ‘surgeon’s hands’ are going to be called on to work on these things in the future, he wants to at least know _why_ you cut the red wire instead of the blue. **  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {A/N: I can't believe that I honestly clean forgot about Carol. She's here now.
> 
> Also, it is my firm belief that you don't get a degree in advanced weaponry unless you like burning stuff and blowing stuff up.}


	20. Nasal

Jim owes him big for this. McCoy sighs and lets himself into Jim’s rooms. The captain himself is currently hiding in the mess hall, buried in coffee and bacon and morning breath, which means that McCoy and Rand did rock-paper-scissors to see who would get to handle his flavor of the night. She’s still asleep, curled up in Jim’s ruffled bed and only the tips of her dark hair visible. He takes a moment to take stock of the room - the nightstand decorations are on the floor and half of the sheets are, too, but otherwise everything is somewhat in order. Not the worst he’s seen. He sits down on the edge of the bed and shakes her shoulder. “C’mon, up’n at ‘em.”

She groans and rolls over, tugging the sheets down past her shoulders, smiling at first until she opens her eyes and see’s McCoy’s not-Jim face. She rushes to pull the sheets back up, but he smiles sympathetically. “Don’t worry, sugar, I’m a doctor. I don’t care.” He holds out a glass of water and two aspirin, and she hesitates, distrust and confusion in her eyes, but she sits up and takes them, still keeping the sheets firmly tucked under her arms. He stands back up and looks around for the feminine clothing that’s sure to be somewhere as she swallows the pills and sips at the water.

“Sorry ‘bout this, by the way.” He finds her dress, slightly wrinkled but nothing a good shaking can’t fix. He tosses it onto the bed - there’s the underwear. “Jim’s a bitch about morning afters.” He throws her underwear on top of her dress, then casually busies himself straightening things with his back turned so she can get dressed. “Don’t take it personally.”

He hears her exhale. “Well, he is a captain. I guess it’s to be expected.” He snorts.

“This ain’t nothing to do with Captain Kirk, this is all Jim.” He fiddles with the data chips littered over Jim’s desk. “Trust me on that.”

A moment of silence except for rustling cloth and the clink of the data chips. “I’m decent.” He turns, and she ducks down to look under the bed. “Oh, where are my stupid shoes?”

He smiles and bends down to help her look from the other side. He finds one purple satiny... thing, he assumes it’s a shoe, it matches her dress. He hands it across the bed to her. “You want anything before you go? Our mess hall replicators make a mean latte.”

She shakes her head, hair falling over her face. “I think I’d rather just go.”

He nods once. “Well, I’ll get someone to transport you back to the starbase. C’mon, I’ll walk you down.”

“Thank you...”

“It’s Leonard.” He goes to the wall communicator. “What about you?”

“Marlene.” She doesn’t offer anything else, and he lets it rest.

“Dr. McCoy here. Can I get someone to the transporter room to transport Ms. Marlene to the starbase?”

“ _Someone’s on their way, doctor,_ ” the communications officer on duty responds after a moment.

“Thanks, lieutenant. McCoy out.” He flips off the communicator.

“Doctor?” He looks over at Marlene, sitting on the bed and tying the ribbons of her last shoe. He shrugs.

“Chief Medical Officer, among other things.” He smiles at her and gestures towards the door. “After you, Ms. Marlene.” She ducks her head in a nod and exits, McCoy following to walk beside her to the transporter room, glaring at anyone who dares to give more than a passing glance. **  
**


	21. Femur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {A/N: Set immediately after The Talk implied in Chapter 11. Might want to refresh your memory of what that means first.}

Now if there’s ever a talk that McCoy never wants to have again, _ever_ , it’s this one, sitting across his desk from a now-buzzed and fidgety Jim, a dead silence fallen after he’s explained he and Spock’s new... relationship.

He’s never considered himself lucky to not be there for his daughter’s adolescence, but at least he won’t have to give The Talk.

McCoy throws back the last swallow of his whiskey and sighs, spinning the top back on the bottle and stashing it away, setting the improvised beaker/shot glasses to the side for cleaning. “Well, can’t say it’s too much of a shock.”

Jim snorts. “I’m starting to think the only ones who didn’t see it coming’re me and Spock.” McCoy shrugs. “Bones, I’m _scared_. I’ve never exactly been good with this shit before.”

“Don’t preach to the choir, kid. _Neither_ of us have a good track record with women - or, I guess, dating in general, in your case.” Jim sticks out his tongue to hide his flush. McCoy leans forward, makes sure Jim is looking at him. “You know that whatever happens, no matter how much you fuck it up or how much you don’t, I’ll be here for ya, right?” His voice comes out softer than he intends. The corner of Jim’s mouth pulls up.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“Good. And if that Gods-be-damned celery stick we call a XO lays a _finger_ on ya, I’ll fillet him, understand?”

Jim can’t help but laugh at that. “You’ll be the first to know, Bones.”

McCoy sits back and chews on the inside of his cheek. “I’ll need to find that fillet knife I’ve got around before I have that word with him.”

“Ah, hell, _please_ don’t tell me you’re gonna give him the shotgun talk for me, I’ll _never_ live that down.”

“Well someone’s gotta put the fear of God in him!” Jim rolls his eyes and crosses his ankle over his opposite knee.

“Dunno what I’d do without you, Bones.”

“Not captain a starship, that’s for one.” McCoy busies himself with his ‘paperwork’. “Now go do... whatever it is you and Spock do for fun. God, I never want to picture any of that _ever again_.”

Jim chuckles and stands, coming around the desk for a moment to clap McCoy’s opposite shoulder, lean in in a strange not-quite hug. “Love you, too.”

“Mmm. Now get out of my sickbay.”


	22. Ethmoid

These are the things he remembers about Starfleet Academy:

The night where he and Jim watched the old television show _Firefly_ , just to laugh at what they thought space travel was like.

The day about halfway through when he realized he’d all but stopped responding to his first name and thought of himself almost entirely as McCoy.

Looking around a classroom on the first day and - yeah, he was the oldest in the room. Again.

The first time Jim called him ‘Bones’. Well, if it had to be a nickname, at least it wasn’t a bad one.

His and Jim’s first Christmas together. (They went to Disney Land.)

Waking up with the folds of his sleeve etched in his cheek and a blanket not his thrown around his shoulders.

Jim’s first anaphylactic shock. In hindsight, he should’ve read his roommate’s medical history before signing on to that.

The mutual shrug shared with Jim when they’d signed on to live together. Why not?

One particular professor’s penchant for teaching through pop culture metaphors.

The dusty haze of a bar/pizzeria after midnight.

That one time when a giant weather balloon/science project gone awry nearly flattened him from behind.

The first professor who was significantly younger than him. Wasn’t the last.

Glimmers of a drunken Tuesday when he told Jim about the ex-bitch and his girl. Jim’s good about not mentioning that now.

A fire drill at 2 AM.

The pretty brunette who checked off every item on the list of His Type in his xenobiochemistry lab that he never spoke a word to.

The cracks in the pavement outside the medical college building.

Watching the sun rise from the Golden gate Bridge with Jim nodding off on his shoulder.

The blaring of ship’s horns from his open dorm window in the dark.

The first alien he ever treated. Xe was a Rigelian, and xe had something like strep throat. He fixed it, and it was all downhill from there.

The space sims. They’re actually worse than space, he now knows.

Being called out as ‘the doctor in the room’ no less than three times a term.

Fog. Fog and rain.

The cadaver autopsy he had to perform in simulated zero-grav. Repeat: worse than actual space.

Jim’s daydreaming about their future captain/CMO duo. He says as long as he doesn’t have to be the XO, he’ll go wherever Jim goes.

Honest ignorance as to Jim’s hero identity. Jim’s honest shock and happiness when he finds out. (At least he could trust this one.)

Moaning with Jim about their awful middle names.

Dropping his doctor title to get an off campus apartment. If there were things that never changed, one constant would be the bloodthirsty San Francisco housing market.

The view from the terraced restaurant up Big Sur.

The woman he picks up drunk, then wakes up to realize she’s the spitting image of the ex-bitch. She doesn’t really get why he won’t talk to her in the morning.

Discovering how much he _hates_ surfing, and the ocean in general. Saltwater doesn’t agree with his disposition.

Jim using his stylus to stir his coffee, licking the drops off, then immediately scooping peanut butter out of the jar with it. (This is the first hint that he’s mildly insane.)

Getting _hit on_ by a professor who thought he was a coworker, not a student. Jim had laughed for days, the asshole.

Introducing the undergrad-learned alcoholic concoction known fondly as ‘Blue Shit’ to Jim, and then immediately regretting it. Their toilet was tinted blue for a _month_.

One particular flavor of Jim’s night that he finds in the apartment’s kitchen the next morning, humming to herself and frying bacon. She also makes gluten- and lactose-free pancakes after he warns her away from cheese in the eggs, and McCoy almost wishes Jim slept with her more, except that’d be wishing the plague of Jim onto a perfectly perfect woman.

Graduation: anticlimactic.


	23. Iliumischium

The _Enterprise_ has been docked on shore leave at Starbase 23 for almost two weeks now - long enough for other starships and their crews to filter in and out of the multiple bars and alcohol-based establishments on the premises. McCoy’s haunting one now, curled up around his chosen poison of the night and only looking to brood and breathe un-recycled air without having to speak. Of course, he has that habit of forgetting that the universe hates him.

A spry young fellow in Operations red, but not a face McCoy recognizes, plops down on the stool next to him and yells at the bartender for a Long Island Iced Tea, and luckily for him the bartender is a Terran native and actually knows what that is. McCoy just snorts softly into his brandy.

Unfortunately for him, the kid’s paying attention to him - of course he is, why else would he sit next to him when there’s plenty of empty barspace? The kid smirks as his scoff. “What, don’t think i can handle it?”

McCoy rolls his eyes and glances at the kid’s sleeves - Ensign. “Iced tea should only come sweetened, or better yet, actually _have_ tea in it, that’s my opinion.”

The ensign leans back against the counter and puts on his biggest airs. “Oh, I’ve got a Southerner on my hands! Where the skies r’so blue and all that.”

McCoy blinks at his brandy, blinks at the kid. He’s not drunk enough for this. “Kid, you really need to think before you speak.” He glances up to make eye contact with the bartender and wave at his glass for another, which he pours after plopping down the ensign’s cocktail of hell on the counter. “First off, you’re a state off with that song choice, and second, if you’re even thinking about comin’ on to me tonight, you’ve got another think coming.” He shoots back what’s left of his second brandy and reaches for the third just poured out by the bartender. “So go take your fancy-ass fake tea and run back to the metal bucket you came from before I have to make a scene.” He keeps his eyes on the counter, although he can feel the kid shift next to him. “You’ve already ruined my perfect night of no chit-chat, and I don’t think you’ll wanna find out what’ll happen if you keep on keepin’.”

The ensign makes a strangled noise that McCoy can just make out over the noise of the bar. “Uh, oh, okay, right. Sorry to bother you, sir.” He skitters away with his tail between his legs, and McCoy shakes his head and sighs.

“Goddamn Yankee.” He sips at his brandy, and the bartender chuckles.


	24. Hamate

** Hamate **

After Spock and Nyota have disintegrated, but before Jim jumps in and snatches him off the market, McCoy finds himself talking relationships with the aforementioned slighted woman in a mostly-abandoned rec room. He’s already dispensed his half an hour rant about the ex-bitch and all of the entanglement that having a child provides, swirling around some awful replicated bourbon in a glass that reflects his mood, his message, and the awful alpha shift they’ve all just gotten off of. She’s got water in her glass, and he hasn’t asked why as she starts in on her lecture about Spock.

“Things just... changed, I guess.” Nyota rolls her glass around by the rim. “It wasn’t easy anymore. I mean, it was never _easy_ , but it wasn’t that hard, either.” Her mouth twitches. “Never like you and Kirk.”

McCoy’s spine shoots straight. “Now, wait, you know that it’s not like that with me’n Jim, right?”

Nyota smiles; they’re both too quiet and serious right now to laugh. “Oh, yes, that’s not what I meant. Even if you two aren’t romantic, you’re still close, but you’re _easy_ close. It just clicks with you two.” She sips at her water. “Anyone can envy that.”

“Well, it’s taken years of puttin’ up with each other to get here, y’know.” She nods, and they fall silent for a moment, lost in their respective liquids and the hum of the few others in the rec room.

“Have you ever thought about it?” He glances over with an eyebrow raised. “With Jim, I mean. Seems a natural step, at least in consideration.”

He shrugs and considers. “We talked about it, back when we were roommates at the Academy.” He swallows a mouthful of his drink before continuing quietly. “Fact a’the matter was, we just ain’t physically attracted to each other. He’s a fine-lookin’ gent, don’t get me wrong, but...” He shrugs again, bigger. “He’s a dumb kid, and God knows I love him, but I’ve never felt the need to push it farther. And he hasn’t, either.”

“Mmm.” Nyota pulls a knee up to lean on it and stares blankly at the far wall. “Good for you, I guess.”

Another long silence falls. This time, McCoy breaks it.

“So next time you hear some dumb chit hypothesizin’ about where Jim’s stupid nickname comes from, you can tell ‘em I said to fuck off.”

That surprises a laugh from Nyota at last, and the conversation turns to the latest returns from the gossip mill.


End file.
